High maintenance

By some awful force of karma, I appear to have a girly girl on my hands.

Savannah doesn't enjoy sleeping. If she does sleep, it's on her terms. No crib or pack 'n play. It's either the swing or with her head nestled between Mama's boobs.

She doesn't like being outside. I guess she wants to protect her milky white complexion. She'd much prefer to be inside, in her swing, pink blanket wrapped nicely around her legs, thankyouverymuch, and if you come near me with a pacifier, Mama, I will surely scream.

Yeah. She doesn't enjoy the sucker. Her brother, on the other hand, will have his in his mouth when he accepts the Democratic party nomination for the Presidential election in.....well, you get it. I don't have the brain cells to sit here and figure out what year it could potentially be.

She enjoys being groomed. Immensely. Although changing her diaper appears to be some sort of sadistic ritual, S enjoys being washed and having her hair gently brushed.

High maintenance I get. I can relate. My husband has told me I'm high maintenance and for the longest time I was in denial. But girly-girl high maintenance? God help me. The teenage years are going to be a real bitch. Maybe she'll have a mouth like a trucker. At least we'd have something in common.